


Backbone

by livenudebigfoot



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M, Wingfic, jk they're literal wings, or maybe it's a metaphor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:43:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1323682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/pseuds/livenudebigfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s not sure what he thought Finch was hiding under all those thousand dollar suits. Scars, he supposes, or secrets or insecurities so big and yawning that even expert tailoring can’t quite hide them. Something small and visible or large and metaphorical.</p><p>Reese never considered this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Backbone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/gifts).



> Wrote this aaaaages ago and am just reposting on an easily searchable, not-Tumblr platform.
> 
> Prompt: Reese/Finch, wingfic - astolat

He’s not sure what he thought Finch was hiding under all those thousand dollar suits. Scars, he supposes, or secrets or insecurities so big and yawning that even expert tailoring can’t quite hide them. Something small and visible or large and metaphorical.

Reese never considered this.

He holds out one hand toward the dusty brown mass pinned flat to Finch’s back with a leather harness, close enough that he can feel the barest, ticklish traces of the tips of the - Finch’s - downy feathers on his palm.

Finch throws a glance back over his shoulder. His mouth is curled in a sharp, bitter smile. “Not what you were expecting, Mr. Reese?”

John swallows, mouth dry. “The thought had crossed my mind.” He closes his hand but does not move away.

"My line of thinking was that if our professional relationship is determined to become, shall we say, less than professional, it would be best if you knew about this sooner rather than - hmm." He trails off as Reese takes the plunge, runs his knuckles against the feathers. They’re soft, fine. He wants to dig in with his fingers, but he holds back. "Haven’t felt that for a while," Finch says, once he’s collected himself.

"Why hide them?" Reese asks. He’s starting to see the outlines now, how what seemed like an indistinguishable gray brown mass is made up of long flight feathers and cramped, bent limbs.

"I should think that would be obvious." When Reese remains silent, too mystified by the miracle of Finch’s back, he continues, "For a man in the business of disappearing, a massive wingspan can be something of a hindrance. And an embarrassment. Watch the straps," he snaps suddenly as Reese toys with a buckle. "It’s a…precarious situation. The…the limbs are very sensitive. And the straps are very tight."

"Can we take them off?" Reese asks. "Just for tonight. I’m not suggesting you walk around Times Square like that or anything. Although," and he leans close, presses his lips to the back of Finch’s stiff neck, "at worst, you’d be mistaken for some kind of street performer."

Finch scoffs, but he reaches back with one hand, strokes Reese’s jaw and the close-cut scruff at the back of his head, and drags his open mouth closer. “I’ve never been much of a performer. Can’t stand the spotlight.”

Reese leans closer, chest pressed flat to the wings and he feels them twitch and flex against him. “We’re the only ones here. And I don’t think Bear will mind.”

Finch half-turns in that way of his, where his whole upper body swivels and it seems almost painful. He sighs. “This isn’t going to become an obsession with you, is it?”

"I am a little curious," Reese confesses.

"Well, don’t be. They’re fairly unimpressive."

"They’re wings." He presses his palm to them, lets the feathers slide whispering between his fingers, and Finch shivers.

"It’s an embarrassing infirmity," Finch says even as his back arches and he squirms against Reese’s hand. "One that I’ve taken great pains to erase."

"Does it hurt?"

"I’ve heard that joke before and it wasn’t funny the first time."

Reese buries his face in feathers, breathes deep, lets them ruffle against his mouth and cheek and eyelids until his head is resting on Finch’s shoulder and his mouth is attacking Finch’s neck. “I was asking about the harness, actually.”

"Oh." His voice is breathy and quavering. "Yes. That does hurt."

"So why not?" Reese asks as his fingertips trace the tiny gold buckles.  "Why not stretch out, just for a night?"

Finch doesn’t respond outside of a tense sound from somewhere deep in the back of his throat. Reese can feel it buzzing against his lips and he mouths harder, like he means to bruise. “I suppose you’ll hound me until I do,” Finch says finally.

"You know me so well, Harold."

"Alright, then." The wings shrug within their bindings, pushing Reese away. "If it will sate your curiosity." Finch rises to his feet and turns to face Reese.

He seems much smaller, without his shirt and vest and jacket. Vulnerable, like a snail with its shell cracked open. He’s never been small to Reese before, or vulnerable. Even though the ease with which he could hurt Finch, break his dusty academic bones and ruin his crippled body, is something that’s always lurking in the back of Reese’s mind and sometimes in the front at odd moments when they are vulnerable together, he has never thought Finch weak.

He still does not think Finch weak. It’s something very like that, though. A combination of protectiveness and predatory hunger.

Finch struggles with the buckles at first and Reese moves to help him. It takes only a soft ‘No’ from Finch, and Reese returns to the bed, sitting tense on the edge, watching Finch unfold himself. The straps are pulled too tight, which makes the buckles nearly immovable at first, but after some working the top one, high on Finch’s thin chest, comes loose, and it is a sight to see the wings move, just once, expanding outward from the shoulders but bent sharply by the lower straps. The second, across Finch’s ribs, comes loose and they expand further, only held in by their tips. The third strap is across his stomach and it’s the easiest because all Harold has to do is suck it in and the strap loosens just a hair and the wings slip free and stretch out with a creak of disused joints.

Reese thinks they must stop before they do, but they keep going, far out beyond the width of Finch’s shoulders, longer than his arms, perhaps eight feet across. These immense brown raggedy wings, with their feathers falling out and their bunching, straining muscles, seem surreal, seem impossible. And yet, of course they’re there. They just belong, like a missing piece of the puzzle. Reese thinks he must be a fool for believing Finch was ever naked or vulnerable. As though the suits gave him any power, as if they weren’t a poor substitute for something far more beautiful and dangerous.

Finch groans, rolls his shoulders, gives the wings a sharp snap. He looks them up and down, like maybe he hasn’t seen them in a while, curves one around himself to brush out deposits of dust from among the feathers. “Gone to seed,” he murmurs. “Not much to look at, are they? Not even a ten foot wingspan.”

"What are you?" Reese asks.

Finch shrugs. “Just a man. With a…healthy interest in ornithology.” He smiles at his own joke.

"Can I?" Reese asks, holding out one hand.

"Of course," Finch says. "You might as well. We’ve come this far."

Reese reaches out, takes Finch’s hand and guides him back to bed. It’s a delicate affair, helping Finch onto the covers and laying him out on his stomach, making sure his back is in alignment and he’s comfortable, but this part, at least, they’ve got down. The wings are new. Unaccustomed to freedom, they move suddenly and clumsily, compensating for every tentative move downward.

Reese sticks to just his back at first, because it’s nearly familiar territory. Only nearly, because while he’s touched backs before, even damaged backs, he’s never touched Harold’s before, not without jackets and shirts and invisible wings in the way. The skin is new to him, smooth and soft and spread over clenched, wasted muscles. They twitch beneath Reese’s fingers. He probes in, chasing tension, producing stunted moans, and by increments he makes Finch’s back relax up to a point. Up to a point when the pink, ragged surgical scars seem almost straight again and the rise and fall of his ribs becomes very slow and even. It’s not until after that point that he even thinks of tackling the extraneous limbs that sprout from his shoulder blades.

At first, he’ll only lightly touch the base, where ordinary skin shades into small, soft feathers, but that space seems ticklish and Reese finds himself in danger of being struck by heavy, flinching wings. Eventually, Finch grows used to it. It’s easier, then, to move upwards, away from the shoulders and on to what he suspects must be like an upper arm, heavy with muscle. He massages, experimental, and the whole wing jerks. “Okay?” he asks.

Finch’s voice, when it comes, is strained. “Somewhat painful,” he admits, “but I suspect in a good way.”

"I’ll be gentle."

"See that you do."

Reese may be prone to rushing into things, but he’s always careful with new ideas, new machines, and he’s not making an exception for Finch’s body. Not after it’s taken so long to see it beyond what little Finch has let him have so far: quick glimpses in the dark of soft ass, red cock, pale, skinny legs, whatever he can glimpse between the hem of Finch’s jackets and pants dragged as far down as his knees. The wings are newer than anything, not just because he’s never seen them before and never thought they might be there to begin with, but because he’s never touched anything quite like them. Nothing as strange or as powerful or as alien or as broken. The joints groan and pop with every movement, but as Reese rubs into the muscles, the wings become quieter, more streamlined. They stretch luxuriantly, enjoying their freedom. Finch pillows his head on his forearms and what few noises he makes are soft and pleasant.

When the creaks are gone and the wings move freely, Reese runs his fingers through the feathers, clearing out loose ones, ruffling the feathers up and smoothing them out until they shine. “Can you fly?” he asks, suddenly.

Finch turns his head and blinks sleepily. “Don’t be ridiculous, John.”

Reese carries on preening him. There’s a lot hanging loose in these wings, a lot that’s lain undisturbed and needs to be shaken out. “Where did they come from?”

"They were always there," Finch says. "I hope you won’t think differently of me, now that you know."

"I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Harold." Reese bends to kiss his scars.

"Don’t romanticize them," Harold murmurs into his folded arms. "It’s no more extraordinary than if I had webbed toes."

"I’m not," Reese purrs, "going to argue with you, Harold." He runs his tongue along the scar he’s been kissing, wins himself a light gasp. "But for the record, I disagree."

"No accounting for taste, I suppose."

Ordinarily, Harold prefers to be on his back because it’s easier on the both of them. Tonight, with the wings loose, they improvise. Harold sits up on the edge of the bed with Reese straddling his lap. Reese sinks down onto him, slow and steady. That’s his mantra for the night because the other times with them, it’s been too short and mostly clothed and in the dark. This is long and exploratory and very nearly honest. Reese wants to keep it that way. He rolls his hips, curls his arms around Harold’s back and feels out the scars and the muscles and the bases of those impossible wings, and Harold’s hand slides between them, curls around Reese’s dick, and maybe only the setup was slow.

When he comes, Harold arches his back the little bit he can, but his wings wrap around them both, enfolding them in ticklish feathers and strange, dusty scent. This is how Reese comes, with soft feathers brushing against his back and a smell like old books in his head and Harold’s bony arms beneath the wings, wrapped tight around him and rocking him through the last pulses of his orgasm. And he stays there, for what is maybe too long a time, with Finch’s spent dick inside him and his hands curled in feathers.

There’s a one-liner in this somewhere. He just can’t quite grasp it. Finch tilts back slowly and his wings wrap tighter still around them and the first time they sleep in the same bed, that is how they sleep.


End file.
